Angels of Death
“. . . I might dream of climbing forever the tall dark trees above me. They are so tall that I feel as if I should find at their tops the nests of the angels; but in this mind they would be dark and dreadful angels; angels of death.” – G.K. Chesterton
Cast out, they wait at the tops of tall trees
In nests wound round with wisps of clouds and ivory feathers,
Reinforced with snow that glitters, gleams, and glows,
Reflecting the icy, piercing light of a moonlit winter night.
They do not sleep.
They do not age or weep or rage.
They have no unearthly children at their feet,
no dust or dung to taint their pristine keep.
They do not die, and they do not live.
Full of promise, they never give.
They shine and shimmer, awe and blind.
They seek to seduce.
They seek to bind.
They seek to eat that part of us
that lives, or dies, forever,
as it must.
They come to us from high above,
Our desolation certain but for Love.
–A.M. Otwell, Advent 2008
Voices in My Head
Voices in My Head
I suppose we each have some voice
rising and falling in our heads,
a blood-dimmed tide loosed
as the center fails to hold.
Yeats of course,
yet not Yeats’ voice.
I hear an old and weary woman of letters,
voice revitalized in the widening gyre,
the fluorescent lights’ disquieting hum
as something slouched toward Bethlehem.
“To be or not to be, that is the question.”
“I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”
The first chapter of the Gospel according to St. John
forever in King James in chorus.
Sixth grade class in chapel,
youthful unison producing half gospel,
half Dr. Seuss.
On discovering that some words echo,
I decided to learn how to use them.
I honed my skill at spoken word
took home with me the verse Wurl hurled,
Rochelle’s measured devastation,
eerie voices that
echoed my pain,
my shame.
Made it real.
Made me reel.
Made me feel.
Made me real.
Later, once taught to thirst,
I looked up laureates.
Frost has made all the difference.
Collins and I have our last cigarettes.
Kooser’s reader cleans her raincoat, and I am somehow comforted.
Recently, the liturgy,
the Word made Flesh in small bright flashes
of various priestly voices throughout each day.
I also hear a still small voice, but I often do not listen.
One would think that I would have something to say,
but somewhere, sometime, somehow,
someone already said it better.
The voices tell me to sing a new song,
but there is nothing new under the sun.
At least I am never alone.
–A.M. Otwell, 2008
(Minor changes made on Tuesday, December 9.)
Eating Crow
Eating Crow
Lord, of course it is wisdom that I seek.
Of course I seek to grow.
I want my heart to grow more meek.
– But I always end up eating crow.
I want to conform to Your will,
but that row is tough to hoe.
I always end up eating my fill
Of that awful black bird, crow.
I’ve had it boiled and chicken fried;
I’ve had crow fricassee;
I’ve had my crow in black crow pie;
I’ve had roasted crow with brie.
Lord, if you would be so kind,
give me a new crow recipe;
my tongue is faster than my mind,
faster than my eyes can see.
I’ve had it at the church potluck
I’ve had it at family dinners, too.
Oh, Lord, for once could I please have duck
and avoid my tongue-fashioned stew?
My fingers also fly too fast
Immortalizing my flaws in cyberspace
Canned crow, frozen — it’s preserved to last.
– I’ll be eating it all my earthly days.
Only You can save me from my fate,
my life as an avivore.
Purge my wrongness, my pride and my hate,
let me show it is You I adore.
I’ve had my crow boiled and chicken fried;
I’ve had it with a side of greed;
I’ve had my crow in black crow pie.
I’m stuffed to bursting with need.
Only You can save me from my fate,
Only You, the One I adore.
Purge my wrongness, my pride and my hate,
Make me holy evermore.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
The Reluctant Christian Mourns
The Reluctant Christian Mourns
When I, each time anew,
shed tears as bread and wine are blessed.
Am I sad for You
or for my gnawing emptiness?
Do I cry because You suffer
You perfect Lamb, unblemished life,
or do I cry from self importance,
too self aware and full of strife?
I thirst!
I hunger for Your love.
I am too well versed in my need.
I cry for my lonely destitution
– I also cry because you bleed.
Inseparable, my joy and grief,
my love embedded in my need.
O Lord, please make whole my belief,
purify thought, word, and deed.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
The Reluctant Christian Reflects
The Reluctant Christian Reflects
Must it all be to your glory?
Is there not one part of this story
I can call my own
if I’m to claim my wretchedness
and confess
your glory?
Can’t I have but one bright spot,
supply one tiny beam of my own,
a flashlight to illumine the sun?
Ah,
I see.
But I still am not content
to be some silver serving tray
reflecting that which quenches.
I am afraid of that which wrenches
self from self, me from mine
. . . that which refines.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
The Reluctant Christian at Table
The Reluctant Christian at Table
Please take this back to the kitchen.
It is too rare.
Warm, yes,
but raw.
Unsuspecting, I pierced it with my fork;
red spread over my plate,
bathing everything in blood.
Please replace it all,
the side of faith,
the helping of hope.
You can leave out the gratitude garnish
– I never eat it, anyway.
Yes, I know
some think the blood enriches the flavor.
It does not tempt
my palate.
Please take it back.
Bring me something neater, if less divine,
to go with my wine.
I ordered my love well done.
– A.M. Otwell, 2008
My Poetry
I’m in the process of surveying my web pages and getting rid of some things I’m no longer pleased with, moving some things to the blog, reorganizing some things, etc. But I don’t really know what to do with the poetry I’ve written that I had on the web site, much of which I now view with mixed feelings.
Though they vary significantly in style, tone, and quality, I had originally chosen to make each poem public for one reason or other, so for the time being, I’m going to link from here to the poems’ pages themselves but refrain from re-posting them here at this time.
Inheritance
Plea
Song of Solitude
Untitled, 1988
Untitled, 2004
The Walking Wounded
What Harvest?
